


Everyone In the Kingdom

by Dangersocks, Jathis



Series: Dirty Fun With Boyfriends Plus One [2]
Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: M/M, Metafiction, Original Character(s), POV Original Character, Profanity, Unrequited Crush, Unrequited Lust, everyone loves Earl Harlan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-27
Updated: 2015-01-28
Packaged: 2018-03-09 06:28:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3239711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dangersocks/pseuds/Dangersocks, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jathis/pseuds/Jathis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>On the road I dream of home and when at home I dream of action...</i>
</p><p> </p><p>"You're Too Cool" by The Zolas</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know how to begin. Let's start with "I'm shameless." Good? Gooood. That's out of the way now. 
> 
> I've always had the impression that original characters in a fandom were weird. Like, if you're going to put time into creating someone valued and new, go all out and just write something original. I still fear that this is a prevalent view and if you buy that, I'm sorry for being uncool. But in telling any story, sometimes you have to make someone in order to carry the plot and the familiar fandom characters forward. And what the fandom offers in choices don't always fit the bill for this device. 
> 
> In [another project of mine](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1755237/chapters/3751593), that purpose was served by an original character named Adam "Smythe" and...he wasn't supposed to be what he has since become. I needed a token character to compare Earl to. A bully to contrast Earl's empathy. A foil to challenge him. I never planned for Adam to be more complex than that. 
> 
> I'm a bad writer, though. I let the characters do their own thing and suddenly, a dozen chapters in to his creation, and I know deep in my bones that Adam is secretly in love with Earl.
> 
> Well _damn._
> 
> And I found that I wasn't the only one who thought that. _Extra damn._ I sure missed the target there.
> 
> So suddenly, Adam is running around with several collaborators. My excellent co-writer **[Maiden_of_the_Moon](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Maiden_of_the_Moon/pseuds/Maiden_of_the_Moon)** and I stay up late giving Adam mini-adventures which only perpetuate the "Adam wants Earl to respect and notice him, also...that fricklefrack thing too" and **[M_Moonshade](http://archiveofourown.org/users/M_moonshade/)** is inviting the Scout to tag along with her wicked-rad dragon Arkay. (She also was wicked-rad herself for helping me edit this.) Finally, some Owl named **[Jathis](http://archiveofourown.org/users/jathis)** is encouraging Adam to be a character in Cecil's fantasy smut.
> 
> And I'm okay with _all_ of this. The character is unique and dynamic, but _him_ every time, and I'm just shaking my head because I have _no idea_ how this happened. 
> 
> But I hope you can relate to his interests with our favourite ginger, and forgive him for getting involved. This is a story about him. It will be a story about _them_. And finally, it will bring a lot of stories about smut to **you**. 
> 
> Thanks.
> 
> \------------

Adam had wanted to be a truck driver his whole life. Or, that is what he realizes the day he submits his leave from the Boy Scouts of America. Perhaps the giant billboard in his kitchen helps him see this childhood dream become a vocation. The obstruction that blocks access to Adam’s table announces that the Night Vale Transport Association is hiring, and they need drivers desperately.

 

It tells him that he had always wanted to be a truck driver. That he had always wanted to transport material and supplies across America and back to his little town. That he, with his Scoutmaster training, could escape Night Vale. Furthermore, he could find it again. It also goes so far as to remind Adam that he has nothing to do anymore, especially in the wake of the ceremony that has led him to tender his resignation from…

 

He clears his throat and finds the phone in his hand before he can think to heft it from its cradle. He calls the number advertised in the big print in front of him. When the agent on the other end picks up, it is only to confirm to Adam that he is doing the right thing.

 

Of course he is, he thinks.

 

He can’t count on his fingers how many times he’s told his friend Earl Harlan how badly he wants to…

 

...drive…

 

…his

 

.

 

If he shuts his eyes, he sees the tracks in the sand. Fingers clawing against the surface. He’s got a badge that explains what made that. _Who_ made that. If he shuts his eyes, he is escaping the tent and expecting to see everyone on the other side. If he shuts his eyes, he is telling Earl Harlan about how badly he wants to…

 

Adam doesn’t shut his eyes. When he looks, there is a road stretching out. It’s dangerous to drive with one’s eyes closed. And it’s safer to travel in a trailer, because nobody can properly imagine a trailer. He’s safe on the road.

 

He’s safe and alone.

 

It’s where he’s always wanted to be.

 

\--

 

Time passes.

 

Highways merge. Truck stops are visited. Gas is pumped. Papers are signed. GPS machines take on homicidal tendencies. Toll booths become familiar. Adam forgets.

 

And eventually -- days, weeks, even months after leaving, the radio picks up a Voice.

 

Adam is home. And he misses events, like corporate takeovers and corporate downfalls. Furthermore, he does not hear of Earl Harlan’s return until long after the fact. Until they pass one another at Rico’s.

 

“Oh.”

 

“Hi.”

 

“You’re...you’ve got stubble.”

 

“I drive a truck now.”

 

“I see.”

 

“It’s what I’ve always wanted to do.”

 

“Good for you. I’m...I’m cooking.”

 

“That’s...interesting.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Yeah. So...still in Scouts?”

 

“I am. Noticed you weren’t.”

 

“I’m...I drive a truck now.”

 

“Right.”

 

Tight smiles. Almost a slap on an arm, or a fist bump, or whatever the kids call it these days. A nod. And then Earl is gone, carrying the bowl of pizza sauce he’s ordered to a car where the pretty scientist waits.

 

Oh.

 

Adam shrugs and gets his mandatory order in before he’s called upon to travel again. There’s rumours that City Council may be leaving for an unplanned trip to Miami. He might warn Earl, as the Council only does that when they know something is lurking. At least Earl could pass it on to Cecil.

 

Cecil, who _should_ be dating the scientist.

 

Adam will have to haul the equipment for the Council’s traveling waterslide projects. It’s a good gig. Pays well. Ensures he’s along for the ride and away from whatever crisis comes next. It also means he can slip into City Council’s ranks at the hotel and siphon from their neverending booze. He can’t name why, but he feels like he’ll need it.

 

Earl and Carlos are holding hands.

 

\--

 

Time passes.

 

Adam spends a week in New York state after Miami. It’s weird there. Especially the number of owls. The former Scoutmaster lies on a hard motel bed and tries to will spiders to race across the ceiling with his mind.

 

When he wakes up in the mornings, he pulls his dream journal out and dutifully writes. He can never remember the visions when he’s away from Night Vale. Adam writes other things, though. Dreams that extend beyond having always wanted to be a truck driver.

 

He sees collars and rope. Freckles and flame. He does not have to be respectable anymore.

 

Time passes.

 

And in this way, paying tolls and eating greasy foods, Adam misses the second attempt of a corporate coup. He doesn’t know of kidnappings and desperate deals. Of long months scoured into the ledgers of broken relationships, much like nails digging into sand. This is all old news by the time Adam brings his wheeler to a squeaking, gasping stall in a familiar lot.

 

He’ll learn of things missed when he dusts off his living room radio. When the host -- who sounds the same, but different...older -- repeats events that have come and gone. The cacophony of blended words and static wailing bleed into Adam’s mind.

 

The meanings untangle themselves with help.

 

From whispered rumours told by citizens while Adam hunches over his coffee. An afternoon at Rosie’s gives him much to decipher from the rumbling of university students and river stones. The Faceless Old Woman answers his remaining queries when he agrees to finally let her have access to his basement. Adam unlocks the Eternal Scout barriers that had kept her for years from the things he privately enjoys. He is willing to give up this last secret space in exchange for clarification. He’s never trusted the Woman. She doesn’t like him much either.

 

His toys and magazines seem less important to protect now, though. She smugly fills him in on a lone Scoutmaster’s foray into Desert Bluffs, and the trade that came of it. Adam sits silently, aware that he would have helped. That Earl could have known to call on him, if only for old times sake. His eighteen-wheeler would have torn through a rival town’s radio station efficiently. The Scoutmasters would have been amazing together -- ambushing and taking hostages and giving no quarter…

 

He would have been an ally, if he had only known. He would have done anything for Earl.

 

But Adam had not been present, pushing supplies around the country when he had been needed most. He feels heavy as the Faceless Old Woman relates to him all the events that followed. The sacrifice. The recovery.

 

“Earl is back, though.”

 

“Oh, yes.”

 

“And they’re all okay?”

 

“He went off into the desert as soon as he returned. I don’t know what he did out there.”

 

Adam nods, relaxing but a little. “It’s in the manual. A Scoutmaster can take care of no one if he cannot first take care of himself. Whatever StrexCorp did, Earl got his mind back and...likely returned to help his...troop...get over the psychological effects. The scientist is an interloper. He’ll need the support. And Cecil...”

 

“Ah,” coos the disembodied housemate as she contemplates what to rearrange in his basement. “Cecil would do me favours if he knew what you knew about Earl’s days in the desert. He worries. Carlos too. They think that a few nights in the wild could not possibly be enough time to cure Earl.”

 

“It can,” Adam sighs. “If Earl’s diligent, which I’m sure he is. So...he’s with both of them?”

 

“ _Very_ with them. By the way, the books you keep down here, also...your toys…”

 

Adam shifts away from the drawers, though he flushes. The porn is private and something he’s sure he can never explain without damning himself. Just because he’s aroused by certain things does not mean he’d ever do them. It’s hard to explain why he gets off on violence. He’d never do those things to someone in real life, though he’s pretty sure he’s found an exception in an eyeless radio host.

 

After what _Kevin_  apparently did to Earl…

 

“There’s nothing in there that I want to talk about,” he mutters, hoping she’ll let the subject drop.

 

“Are you sure?” teases the Faceless Old Woman. “I might have some things to add to your collection, actually.”

 

This is not an offer Adam is expecting to hear from her.

 

“You’ll find a link on your smartphone. Also, I erased all of your contacts.”

 

Adam keeps a scowl to himself. There is no one he messages anymore, but he does recognize that he’s getting off easy where the Faceless Old Woman is concerned. He pulls out his mobile and wearily clicks the link. It leads to someone named NVVoice.

 

_Everyone in the kingdom loved and despaired at the very thought of the princeling named Cecil._

“Oh you have got to be fucking kidding me,” Adam announces. The exclamation echoes hollow across his narrow basement and he supposes that he is alone again. “Does he even know the meaning of the word subtle?!”

 

Maybe the Faceless Old Woman is punishing him after all.

 

Adam nearly slams the phone down, having a dozen better things to do than to keep reading. He has a shipment to make the next morning and any number of his own toys or material could entertain him until then.

 

Who the hell posts their sexual fantasies with a pen-name so obvious?

 

He scrolls down angrily until a certain Elf is mentioned. That’s when Adam’s thumb stops the screen with force enough to crack it.

 

\--

 

Time passes.

 

_“Now…let’s see how selfish Princelings handle having an Alchemist in charge for once! No former Elven Princes turned whores telling me what to do!”_

The phone vibrates and this jerks Adam from his focus. He nearly curses at the number that interrupts the story.

 

Oh.

 

Work.

 

For the first time ever, the truck driver is late.

 

He also realizes that he had not moved all night, poring over story after story. He can’t even run out the door to save his timecard. He needs a shower first. New clothes.

 

And he’s been reading voraciously about three local men, one of them a very close friend...or acquaintance.

 

Maybe.

 

He also knows he won’t stop, already scrambling to save unread material on the device before his connection gets sketchy outside of Night Vale. He’s hooked. He’s got it bad.

 

Earl likes to sub.

 

Adam didn’t know that, and shouldn’t know that, and can’t _unknow_ that...

  
“Shit.”


	2. Chapter 2

Adam pulls over in Illinois when he cannot wait any longer. He has purchased a laptop. He steals internet from Starbucks.

 

How the mighty and disciplined have fallen, he thinks. He lies to the server’s terms and services as he logs on.

 

He is now an anonymous fan of a certain radio host’s writings. He drives up the hit count and debates on leaving sourceless comments, but he also knows how sharp Earl is. If Harlan comes across the messages, certainly the ginger would know.

 

Earl’s smart.

 

Or, perhaps the Scoutmaster wouldn’t care. He may no longer know Adam, after all. He may not recognize the brunette’s unique electronic syntax and nuanced punctuation.

 

The trucker is not sure which would be worse. He tries not to think about it.

 

On the road, he thinks about it. He also thinks about the stories that NVVoice claims he had never intended to post. The early ones.

 

Adam lacks context, but he makes his own assumptions as he increases the number of states between himself and his home. Cecil must have started with private stories. That makes sense, as Earl and Carlos would not want such fetishes aired for public attention. Hell, Adam used to lock up his collection from even the Faceless Old Woman.

 

And Adam believes that Cecil would have respected the privacy of his lovers. The writer hints of some aspects of his relationships on the air, but nothing like the intimacy and drama of the stories.

 

So…

 

StrexCorp gained access of the works in their raid and Cecil had been foolish enough to keep a weak password. Or, perhaps under duress, he had betrayed the mechanism protecting his secrets.

 

Adam’s taken his Psychological Torture badge. He thinks he’s one up on Mr. Palmer, the radio host leaving Scouts in order to intern. Such information could be used to humiliate. An attempt to dominate, dishearten, and shame?

 

Once an idea is made public, it is dangerously hard to forget. This Adam knows, watching City Council scramble about on their Miami trips murmuring and mumbling about how the whole of Night Vale should be mind-wiped or purged because of leaked information.

 

Ironically, it is usually Cecil who does the leaking. The poetic justice of his stories befalling the same fate does not delight Adam. He is glad to have had the chance to read them -- and keep reading -- but this is Earl’s sexuality. These were neighbours and friends, and as insatiable as his curiosity is, Adam also feels for them.

 

Upon reinstating their lives, the writer could have tried to compensate for the breach by dominating it instead. Making it his own by controlling the content. Writing willingly and without further embarrassment.

 

Adam finds himself nodding. There is a sort of therapy through honesty. And if the town is fiercely protective of the trio, it is a reminder of solidarity. Of titillating adventurism. Of one more strange aspect to celebrate in Night Vale.

 

Of the three being okay.

 

And the trio _have_  to be collaborating. Adam imagines them sprawled across the bed, dreaming up encounters and designing their scenes. They will evolve their characters, finding new ways to create a continuity that Adam follows on Ao3.

 

There could be whispers on street corners when new chapters update. Conversations at water-coolers and feeding pits. Teenagers making notes, and old ladies throwing winks at the men.

 

Adam grins when he imagines Harlan trying to explain certain anatomy at Scout meetings. The mirth drains when Adam realizes that he will never get to see that himself.

 

He drives a truck now.

 

“That part of my life is over.” Those relationships are closed. He had made that choice after the ceremony. He still knows it had been a good choice. But after reading NVVoice’s collection of stories, Adam feels like he is not quite a citizen, anymore. Nor entirely an interloper.

 

He is nothing but an analytical fanboy of moderately amateurish-written smut.

 

“I can’t keep doing this,” he murmurs.

 

There is a sign advertising free Wi-Fi at the gas station ahead.

 

\--

 

He doesn’t leave any comments on the new story. The Elf Prince is treated sweetly and Adam thinks the relationship it reflects is softening. Adjusting. There is less bondage and threats. The Spoiled Princeling is remorseful.

 

Something happened? he wonders. They’re healthy, he supposes.

 

Adam would still like to read of the Elf on his knees.

 

The reader doesn’t leave any comments, though. He picks up his dream journal and writes there instead.

 

Little stories. Snippets of what he’d like to see. Of what he’d like to do. Of _who_ he’d like to do.

 

The motel cricket starts trying to click codes from old wars into Adam’s ear and he swats it aside, hearing its carapace bounce off of the complementary clock. His eyes follow it with a wary flicker, and that is when Adam notices the hour. He has been writing all night.

 

He glances down, finding pages full. Half his journal.

_“Your Spoiled Prince called me in to suss out the spy. But I know of noone with better access to state secrets than the filthy Elf. He’d gain the most from selling what he hears, and I will illicet a confession in a night…”_

 

And with a tight pressure coiling at his groin as he reflects on the content, the brunette realizes that he’s got it especially bad.

 

He’s writing Mary Sues now.

 

“Fuck.”

 

\--

 

Adam hears the radio whine as he nears the state line. A familiar hum resonates deep in his eardrum and as the sun buries itself properly into its daily grave, a Voice welcomes Adam back to Night Vale.

 

Behind the backdrop of words and warnings that are usual for the broadcast, Adam thinks he can hear scribbles. He thinks he can hear the scratch of a forbidden pen stabbing paper. He wants to know what tale the reporter is recording. He dreads it, too.

 

It guarantees another night of clutching himself, eyes closed and body pinning a pillow that won’t have freckles no matter how many times Adam shoves it against the headboard or knocks it to the floor.

 

He respects Earl. He really does. He always had.

 

He hopes Earl’s happy, rolling his eyes at Cecil’s theatrics and then again, at the sex.

 

Adam should comment on a story. He really should, because the Elf is portrayed as proud, and brave. These are accurate descriptions of the one who inspires the character. And the Elf is additionally gorgeous when trapped and used.

 

Gods, _yes!_

 

But is Earl the same? Is he _really_ like that? Does he consent, and bite and beg and pretend that he’s really tied down? Is he along for the fantasy of a prince and an alchemist giving him armies, and then giving their cocks when he’s home and bloodied?

 

If they’re all perfect, and content, and great...that’s...that’s good. That’s fine.

 

They can have that.

 

Adam has truck driving.

 

He’s always wanted to drive a…

 

\--

 

“Can I help you?”

 

“Delivery,” Adam states, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. “Stronger table. Reinforced. It’s heavy.”

 

The woman who greets Adam at the front door is covered in a head bandage and clearly suspicious. She should be, as there is no expected delivery.

 

Adam is supposed to be taking the new tables to Town Hall, as the Council wants something sturdier to hide beneath in times of crisis. Clearly, this intern values the same commodity because her eyes light up and she nods. Who cares if the table was not ordered?

 

She reaches for the clipboard to sign for it, and Adam draws the form away. “Sorry, I need a...different signature.”

 

The intern, her name badge unreadable under dried blood, might be considering the consequences now of decking Adam. She is frosty all over again, lips twitching and fists clenching as she crosses her arms. “What the hell does that mean?”

 

“Have you got someone who hasn’t been here for simply a week?”

 

“I’ve been here for two years,” she challenges.

 

Adam raises his brows. “Ah. Well...I didn’t expect that.”

 

“What the hell are you looking for?” she snaps. Behind her, a tree is poking its head through a doorway.

 

“I need a signature from your radio guy,” Adam drawls.

 

“He’s busy.”

 

“The show ended. I was listening. He’s _not_ on the air.”

 

“He’s _busy_ ,” she repeats. “Give me the form and you can get your ass on its way.”

 

Adam stands his ground. “No signature, no table.”

 

If he’s going to get punished by City Council for botching a delivery, he’s going to make it count.

 

The intern clamps her teeth down and considers. Finally, she sighs. “Stay here. I’m not responsible for his mood if he comes down.”

 

Adam thinks he can handle Cecil’s mood. He’s had to put up with it on camping trips, not that Cecil would remember.

 

The tree remains, curiously regarding Adam while they wait. The trucker shifts, letting his clipboard ground him. After two moments, each longer than the one before, the slap of runners on tile is heard. The pace is brisk.

 

Cecil Palmer appears. His sweater-vest is channeling pink flamingos. It seems to have a strobe effect that encourages Adam to glance away. A hand stretches out. “I have to sign for something?”

 

There is an edge to the voice. It seems that the intern got her say in. Adam offers the papers and notes that he does not have to pull out a pen. The radio host scribbles his autograph on the page with his own. There are ink stains on his hands.

 

And like that, the paper is pushed back. No words. The irritation says more as Adam is looked over once and then dismissed. He can’t feel insulted, as everyone knows Cecil is the most re-educated man in town. Still, this is _too_ fast. Too dismissive.

 

“Spiders.”

 

The other stops. “Pardon?” he asks, sounding like he immediately regrets answering. He does not want to be here. He does not want Adam here, a nameless, faceless delivery driver. They have no reason to share a conversation.

 

“Spiders would fit perfectly in your world. Your stories. Uh...large ones...making large webs. In deep forests…”

 

“My stories?” Cecil asks, turning and his mind seeking context behind a twisted face.

 

“About the Spoiled Prince...” Adam explains, feeling less bold. He senses he should back away and stop reading. Then stop thinking or sharing before he gets hurt. None of his badges have prepared him for this. He knows why he doesn’t leave comments and he knows why he’s alone on the road. He knows why he drives. It’s to get away from understanding that he’s got nothing. “...and the Elf.”

 

Cecil blinks, frozen.

 

Maybe Adam’s been away for too long. Maybe he’s misunderstood how the rest of Night Vale behaves. Perhaps nobody reads the stories because they respect the lovers their privacy. Maybe Adam is a creep.

 

He doesn’t expect fingers to latch into his arms and to be shaken. “YOU READ THOSE?!”

 

“Uh…”

 

“OH MY GODS, YOU’VE READ THOSE?!”

 

“I...yes?”

 

Adam is released and then rendered dizzy as the fluorescently clad writer twirls about. “I can’t wait to tell Carlos! You know, you’re the first! I mean, the first to bring it up. And spiders? To tie up the slaves?”

 

The truck driver nods weakly. He may be just as overwhelmed. “The Elf could make an error in judging the forest.”

 

“Or he’s rescuing the alchemist who ventured too far afield, but is overcome by the beasts.” Cecil is jumping up and down.

 

Adam nods, seeing how it could play out. “And there is venom.”

 

“Venom!” cheers Cecil. “Oh...and it’s _sex venom!_ ”

 

“Is there any other kind in smut?” Adam asks with a smirk.

 

“All tied up and nowhere to go.”

 

“Knowing each twitch against the web summons monsters.”

 

“How to get them back to the Spoiled Prince?”

 

Adam swallows, daring to make the proposal. “A beastmaster controls the spiders. He...has his fun with them...and then offers a trade?”

 

The mention of a trade causes the radio host to flinch. Painfully, _immediately_ , Adam knows his mistake.

 

“An alliance, perhaps,” he quickly corrects.

 

Cecil looks doubtful, but reluctantly prompts Adam to go on with a shrug.

 

“Maybe the beastmaster had been cast out by the kingdom for his...strange ways,” tries the brunette. “But he also understands that the Spoiled Princeling has been gentle lately, remorseful for past actions. There are rumours. The soldiers and merchants talk. And the beastmaster has spider spies. He recognizes that the Elf, while noble, wishes to be diminished to the status of a helpless whore. Wanting to unite the others so the kingdom is stronger, and...safer from the rival nation, maybe to gain entry again...”

 

“I should go,” Cecil murmurs, and Adam feels his heart drop. “I’m interrupting your delivery.”

 

“I see,” Adam answers, clearing his throat. Nodding. He’ll breathe in a second.

 

“If I don’t write that down soon, I’ll forget it,” continues the radio host. “Can I have your phone number or email? Or, would that be weird?”

 

Adam nearly drops the clipboard. “No. I mean...no! Unless _you_ think it’s weird?”

 

“I’m not the best judge of weird,” confesses Cecil. “I have to go, but thank you for the table. And for bringing up spiders. And reading my stuff. And...well…”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Right.”

 

“Yes.”

 

Adam backs up and waits until he is out of doors before he pumps his fist in the air. NVVoice liked his idea! “Holy shit!”

 

He pulls out a table that he shouldn’t be giving to the radio station. He carries the damned heavy thing inside and finds a tree willing to help lug it up the stairs. He’s handed a card with a scrawled number on the back. It’s in the same ink that coats Cecil’s thumb.

 

Adam can tell. He used to be a Scoutmaster.

 

It’s the same ink that also creates the stories Adam reads at night.

 

 _Looking forward to collaborating,_ says the note.

 

He climbs into his truck, both proud and terrified of what he has done. He can lie about the missing table, but Earl will eventually have to know that Adam is involved. That Adam _wants_ to be involved.

 

“Shit.”

 

 

He is grinning madly as he swears.


End file.
